P.S. I Love You (2007)

P.S I Love You (2007) Hilary Swank is not the kind of name you could live with in Glasgow, especially if you were a guy. Gerard Butler recently of these parts walked around like a wardrobe, but with good hair, trying to act and with a strange accent. At first I thought it was Lulu/Sheena Easton Amercanism syndrome whereby they speak film language over there and talk shite over here. Then I realized ‘Fairytale in New York,’ The Pogues, he’s meant to be Irish. If they’d just played a U2 number I’d have known right away. Right at that point Gerard had been killed off, not for his acting, or his accent, but by a brain tumour.

Brain tumours are good. Heart attacks when you’re young make people think there was something wrong with you. And when your dealing with walking wardrobes the audience is meant to think more Ikea than B&Q. Cancers like dry-rot. That doesn’t sit well with an audience. It reminds them of mortality. Gerard with a brain tumour meant he could do his best acting sitting framed in a picture on top a casket, while other people talked about what a great guy his character was.

Then, just when I thought it was safe, he appeared again as a 3D motivational tool. I gave up. Life’s too short. It was too depressing to watch any more.